I lay flat on my back on the edge of my bed, staring absently onto to the rail of my balcony abutting the neighbouring building and the dim sky. My body positioned diagonally, I let my head hang by the side of my bed. I found myself recognizing a liminality of some sorts between and across the deafness within my room accompanied by the brewing of dark clouds outside and a certain memory of mine. A moment in time that had managed to become timeless.
The field was somewhat small in proportion. It faced two buildings placed adjacently on one side, the left most corner of which was connected to the field behind. Between them only a narrow gutter. The other side was bordered by a road, acting as a separation from the wilderness which lied on the other side.
I arrived expecting friends, but what surrounded me, almost deceptively, was an anthropogenic vacancy. I stood still. This was the beginning of an enchantment. I stared upon the brewing cloudscape of navy blue as the grass of deep green quivered below. The wind grew with no mercy. And this is where we all stopped and stood still. It was as though, all of us had paused, ceased to continue the spontaneity of being. A stasis of the panorama. The wind brought about it a sweet frigidness. I remember breathing in largely, at the end of which I was happy. A complete willingness to let the wind lay me on the grass took ahold of me. As a pleasant quiescence started billowing around, this whole tapestry stitched itself onto my soul. Whatever I felt was quiet and inexorable. I became a martyr for this tableau. It was a good day to die.
"As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more."
Pslams 103:15-16
